


I Love You Better

by calmlikesurrender



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst and Fluff, I love you better, M/M, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 03:19:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/629776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calmlikesurrender/pseuds/calmlikesurrender
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic for "Taken" :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Love You Better

Zayn has plans today and that’s good because for a few weeks he couldn’t do much of anything.

            He would just stand in his bedroom- middle of the afternoon, still in the rumpled clothes he’d slept in. And, with a paintbrush behind his ear, he’d watch that blank canvas. Watch it mock him in a stoic shadow, clawing at the thin walls of his sanity. And he’d locked away his paint days ago because every shade that used to be his favorite just reminded him of Harry.

            A dusty copper, an auburn brown. It’s Harry’s hair, his curls, still damp from the shower, dripping into the carpet then Zayn’s skin then their sheets. And how can he look at green again? When it’s light and he smiles, then so dark, so angry, and Zayn wants to suck him dry. But he locks the colors away. He locks them away for grey.

            Not really grey, though. Silver. Silver with white orbs, gold flecks that mimic the light. It’s Harry’s skin on stage- the pulsing blue- and he shines from somewhere deep and unworthy, his lips pressed so close to the mic, his long fingers on the strings of his guitar, his hair in his eyes, face slick with sweat…

            But today Zayn has plans and that’s all that matters because he’s going to get Harry back.

 

            He drinks so much before, but it’s still not enough. He trudges out of his flat, signals a taxi with the hand not clutching  the beer.

            “Darrel’s Cove,” he says, trying to keep his voice steady.

            The driver turns his head a little, smiles this beaming, terrifying white line.

            “Man, I can’t believe you got tickets. White Sweater’s playing.”

             _I know_ , he wants to say,  _Why do you think I’m going?_

He doesn’t have the heart to tell him he knows the lead singer. Tell him he’s going to beg… He just offers back a nod and takes another sip.

            “Yeah, I heard they were good.”

            They pull up to the lot outside of the venue, and the driver waves him off like they’re old friends or something. He leaves Zayn with the fading head lights, with the pulsing music seeping through the walls.

            He wants to go inside.

            But he knows he won’t. There’s only another hour left in the set. Harry never stays around to close up, just grabs whichever girl or guy’s closest to him, and heads to the nearest hotel. Tonight’s the same.

            Zayn’s out on the back step, cradling his head in his hands, when the door swings open flooding the night in some weird amber smoke. He hears him laughing at it’s suffocating.

            “Harry?”

            His voice breaks.

            But it’s loud enough. Harry turns to him, still smiling, but it drops when he sees his face.

            “Zayn,” he says, sighing, “What are you doing here?”

            It’s just them, so it’s okay. It’s alright. He grabs for Harry’s wrist. He wants to kiss him really. Tell him he can be better.

            “I want  _us_ again,” he says, “I’ll try harder, I promise.”

            Harry watches him, eye level, before pulling away, his mouth set in a grimace, “I’m waiting for someone,” he says, “You should go.”

            He doesn’t even have to ask who. It’s so obvious.

            “Louis’ not-”

            He doesn’t make it much further than that. The door swings open again and a crowd pours out, the last person, a boy in stripes with long hair and red shoes, walks over and puts his arm around Harry’s waist. He looks at Harry like Zayn’s not even there. Like he doesn’t know who Zayn is.

            “Hey, babe,” he says into Harry’s ear, nibbling at the lobe. His voice is so high and aggravatingly sweet, “You ready to leave?”

            And to Harry’s credit, he looks to Zayn first. His eyes are cruel, but at least he looks.

            “I’m with Louis,” he says, “You should go, man.”

            “Harry, I-”

            He puts his hand up, rolls his eyes like Zayn’s just being ridiculous. Like he’s wasting his time.

            “Come on, Zayn. We’re done. Give it up,” he says, and Louis sneers at him through his pompous blue eyes, “It wasn’t that great anyway.”

            Through the haze of the alcohol, it still doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t understand how Harry can still say no.

            “I thought we could- You don’t want to-”

            “God, Zayn,” he snaps, “What do you want, divorce papers? Stop begging. It’s pathetic.”

            Then he’s grabbing Louis by his arm, pulling him across the street. And Zayn’s tears are clouding his eyes. So much that he sits there for another half hour with his head between his knees, rocking back and forth, sobbing. He doesn’t see the headlights or the stranger making his way over. Not until he’s right at Zayn’s feet, heavy brown boots, his hand outstretched.

            Zayn just frowns up at him.

            “Are you okay?” the guys asks.

            Zayn nods, but he knows he has to look pretty crazy, crying all alone on the side of the road.

            “Do you- Do you want a ride or something? I’m Liam by the way,” he says. And his hand is still out so Zayn takes it.

            On his feet, he can see him better. He’s tall, hot, but Zayn feels almost too sick to even care. It’s not until he looks at him,  _really_  looks at him, that he feels the roar fade to a dull throb.

            Because his eyes aren’t terrifying. They’re brown. Cool. Easy. And he smiles like Zayn doesn’t have tears streaming down his face.

            “Where do you live?” he says when they’re inside his truck.

             And after he tells him, it’s the longest ride of his life. Not because of Liam. He’s really sweet actually. In a stranger type of way. But because he’s sobbing the entire time, his body shaking, and he can’t stop. He tries, but he can’t. Everything feels like it’s coming up, then down again, but like, fast and he’s terrified.

            Liam slows down, watches Zayn from the side of his eyes like he’s afraid he’ll jump out into traffic or something.

            “Are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, and then Zayn’s telling him. Somehow it all pours out. Harry and how he hadn’t even asked for it. How it just happened, dead and fast and painful. And how he should have known. How it was so simple, but he wanted to make Harry happy, so he drank him in. How Harry was his first, like the _first_  first and he doesn’t even know why he says that because Liam could be the straightest guy on the planet, but he just feel like it’s important and it’s slipping out.

            Then they’re in front of Liam’s place and Zayn’s hands are in Liam’s hair and they’re kissing. It’s sloppy, tears sort of everywhere, but it feels right, too.

            Liam leads him upstairs and he’s so gentle, but Zayn doesn’t want it. He’s not ready for the full thing yet. He knows that. But he wants Liam’s hands on him and he wants it to burn and leave bruises, so he tugs him closer and he bites until Liam groans and Liam lets him open him up, lets Zayn ram into him. Liam’s lips wrap around him afterward, and Zayn shakes and he comes down and he wonders if this is goodbye.

            He’s never done this before. Never come back to a stranger’s place. But Liam answers the question before he even asks it, and they’re snuggled close with the drapes closed and he’s pressed up against him. And maybe it’s the high, but he sleeps so sound.

—

It feels nice. To have strong arms just hold him no questions, no demands. So when Zayn wakes up the next morning, he just settles more into Liam’s grip, buries his face in the crook of his neck, takes a deep breath that comes back like fire, smoke and soot, burning things and faint traces of his aftershave, sweat and deodorant- Zayn tucks it all away.

            All of it.

            Every scent, because it’s good, like deep down- he can tell- and he’ll never see this guy again, so he saves it, a pleasant memory for when everything else gets too much.     

            When Liam lifts his arm a little, pulling Zayn closer, he gets another whiff.

            “You know,” he says, and it’s probably too much but he kisses Liam’s neck anyway, just on the dark skin of a mole below his adam’s apple, “You smell like a chimney.”

            When Liam laughs, his whole chest shakes and Zayn can feel it under his skin.

            “Sorry,” he says, “I’m a fireman. Part of the job, I suppose.”

            And there it is again- another notch. Beautiful, kind, lips like an angel,  _fireman._

            “No, it’s- it’s good,” he says, imagining Liam running off, saving families in burning buildings and he feels so unworthy of this, him, his hands, “I like it. You smell like… comfortable.”

            Liam looks up at the ceiling, bothering his lip with his teeth like he’s considering his words.

            “Comfortable’s good,” he says finally, “Cozy. I’ll accept that. Like a good sofa.”

            But Zayn’s not even really listening anymore.

            He runs his fingers over the smooth skin of Liam’s chest, slowing at the fine trail of brown hair just in the middle, pushing down gently in the muscles of his pecs.

            He feels embarrassed, but he doesn’t know why. He wants him again. Which shouldn’t be a problem- they were tangled up so close only hours ago.

            But it seems so different now without the ache pushing up bile. Without the drunk rush of his heart taking a nose-dive.

            “Or a bed,” he says, forcing himself to meet Liam’s eyes. He lets his hand trail up to his neck, runs his thumb over the birthmark there, wonders if it would feel different on his tongue- different than the skin around it- wonders why Liam hasn’t said a word. “Maybe,” Zayn adds with a nervous laugh.

            But then they’re kissing somehow and maybe it’s Liam, but maybe it’s Zayn, or maybe it’s this silent agreement to not let go. And it’s another hour before they finally get out of bed.

            They’re both pretty disgusting, but neither has time for a shower. Liam says he can shower at work. Zayn splashes water on his face and borrows Liam’s toothbrush which should be gross, but neither mentions it. Liam checks his watch every few minutes while he scrambles up some eggs and they scoop them out onto toast, scoffing it down on their way out.

            There’s an awkward pause when they reach the street where Liam’s heading for his truck, and Zayn’s going the opposite way.

            “I can give you a ride,” Liam says, but Zayn just shakes his head.

            “It’s okay, don’t want you to be late.”

            So Liam’s walking away. And still walking. And he’s going so  _slow_  like he doesn’t want to leave, so Zayn has to do it. He just feels like after a night like that, he’d be crazy not to take the chance. Even when he gets the feeling Liam’s top shelf and he’s pantry on a good day.

            “Uhm, did you? Did you maybe want to?”

            Okay, and he’s such a fucking idiot.

            But Liam laughs at least, smiling and then they’re close again and he tugs Zayn’s phone from his pocket. He presses his number in slow, then leans in a little and Zayn thinks maybe he’s going to hug him, and he braces himself for a bit of palpable awkwardness.

            But Liam kisses his cheek.

            “Will you call me?” he says.

            Zayn nods, a little dizzy.

            “Maybe we can hang out sometime,” Liam says, taking a few steps back, “But, you know, on better terms…”

            Zayn feels his cheeks heat up, but then Liam offers him a gentle smile.

            “It’s okay if it’s too soon.”

            “It’s not,” Zayn says, surprising himself. Mostly because of how true it feels. One night with a stranger and he just  _knew_. Knew what it was supposed to feel like.

            “What about tonight?” he says, “We could-uh, get coffee or something? I know a nice place. It’s sort of out of the way, but their pear tarts are heaven.”

            He watches Liam, afraid maybe he didn’t mean that- afraid he meant, “Here’s my phone. Call me if you’re horny”, but Liam’s biting his lip and that smile doesn’t falter, digging into his cheeks.

            “I’d like that,” he says, “I’ll see you then. Tonight.” 

            Zayn smiles, clutching at the phone in his pocket like he can feel Liam’s hand prints through the fabric.

            “Tonight.”

 

—

            It’s weird how fast it happens, how quickly they slip into _familiar_.

            Maybe because Zayn had been so used to girls- how they were erratic and flinty, seeming almost determined to be sure he had no idea what they were thinking.

            Then Zayn had Harry who scuffed him raw, and Zayn fell hard but he broke everything on the way down and he didn’t even know that he was trying too hard because Harry was new territory. In so many ways.

            But now he has Liam who’s an open book. Which is maybe just what he needs. So much so that even after only six months, they say “I love you” and it’s an anchor.

            Tonight’s one of those nights, too. He and Liam are  _there_ , and Liam’s hips are guiding his. He presses into him and Liam gasps, head thrown back against Zayn’s shoulder.

            “More,” he says, “Please.”

            So Zayn wraps his hand around him and eases him into it slowly and they catch up so fast because Zayn knows Liam’s body even better than his own. He knows every dip, every groove, every layer.

            But it’s when they’re lying out afterward, Liam’s arm across his chest, that he hits unfamiliar territory.

            “I want to give you something,” Liam mumbles into his skin.

            Then he’s grabbing a little velvet box from the night stand drawer and he hands it to Zayn like he’s afraid it’ll explode.

            Zayn laughs nervously.

            “I love you, but not quite ready for that kind of commitment,” he jokes and Liam rolls his eyes, but it’s good. It eases the tension. He opens the box slowly and there, on a flat bed of grey silk, is a wide silver band.

            “Liam, what is this?”

            He moves in closer to him, takes the ring from the box without saying a word and slides it onto Zayn’s finger.           

            “It’s a promise,” he says, “I know he hurt you. I just- I want you to know that you don’t ever have to worry about that. Me. _With_  me.”

            “Liam, I-”

            He hushes him, struggling to find the words, but he needs to say it.

            “I know that it’s hard for you sometimes. To get so close to me. Because he was your first and that means so much. It’s a promise that I’m making. A promise that I’ll wait for you. No matter how long it takes.”

            And Zayn can’t help it really. Not when Liam’s looking at him like he’s the most precious thing on the planet.

            He starts to cry.

            And Liam tries to stop him with kisses, but he only makes it worse, pulling Zayn close and whispering into his ear, “I mean it. I’ll wait. Even if we’re both hideous and old and grey.”

—

             _Just one more hour. Just one more hour until I get to see him._

He just chants it over and over in his head because otherwise he knows he’ll go mad. If he has to look at another Styrofoam cup stenciled out  _hey cutie call me_  in fat pink gel pen, another blueberry scone, another  passion fruit tea.  _With lemon and apple, please. Wait. Is the lemonade natural? I’m allergic to red 6._

“And for you, ma’am?” he asks, hiding a sigh as a heavy-set older woman ambles closer to the counter, patting down her thinning curls with an anxious hand.

            “Be a dear,” she says, “Be a good boy. Could you read me the top line there?”

            Zayn follows her eyes to the board behind him.

            “That’s our daily specials,” he says, turning back to face her. He’d had it memorized after an hour of coming in.

            “We’re doing half-priced double espressos today, and if you buy a muffin, you can have a coupon for next time.”

            “Hmm,” she squints up at the board, then back to him, matter-of-fact expression, “What if I only buy  _half_ of a muffin?” and it goes on like that nearly fifteen minutes.

            He’s so frustrated by this point he doesn’t even recognize the voice at first. Doesn’t recognize until the last two words sink into his chest like dead weight, settling on those stupid pursed lips.

            “I’ll buy the damn thing,” he says, and Zayn’s lungs are suddenly remarkably under-capacity.

            But Harry doesn’t recognize him. Not when the old woman waddles out with a green tea and a blueberry muffin. Not when Zayn asks him for his order. Not until he slides his card across the counter and he pauses, looking at the wide silver band on Zayn’s ring finger.

            “Zayn?”

            He can’t even tell if it’s a happy acknowledgement. Even after dating off and on for three years, Zayn had never been able to really read him.

            “Hey, Harry,” he says with a weak smile because fate  _would_  have it that he runs into him here and suddenly there are no annoying customers to barrage him and save the day.

            Harry rocks back on the heels of his scuffed suede boots, taking a sip of his latte.

            “So the metal,” he says, looking down at the ring again, “You’re engaged? Who’s the unlucky bastard?”

            “No, it’s actually a- erm, promise ring…”

            “Doesn’t that mean you’re  _pure_?” Harry asks and his voice dips and he leans in close like he’s afraid the walls might try and listen in, “What lies are you telling this girl?”

            They’re so close. Too close. He could count his eye lashes if he wanted to, reach out those few inches and run his hands through the sloppy fringe he always insisted on never trimming.

            Then he remembers Liam’s hands on his jaw, on the back of his neck. He remembers the way Liam’s hair feels in his fists, short gold strands between his fingers.

            “He’s a guy, actually,” Zayn says.

            Something dark and bitter burns behind Harry’s eyes. It’s gone almost immediately, though, and he’s back to his smirk, that jagged set to his ridiculous lips that used to have Zayn on his knees in an instant. Now it just seems menacing and cruel, wild and pathetic.

            Harry laughs, taking another sip of his coffee.

            “Well, I guess after your first cock you’re insatiable,” he says, “but you know what they say- You always remember your first.”

            Zayn just rolls his eyes. And thankfully the door chimes and he’s saved by a group of young girls. He tries to ignore how they giggle at Harry, patting down their hair and sliding up their skirts.

            “Unless your first was shit,” Zayn whispers to him, then digs into the display case to put out the scone samples and the girls pounce on them greedily.

            “You don’t mean that,” Harry says, putting his hand on top of Zayn’s on the counter.

            It’s so sudden, disconcerting, that he doesn’t even pull away. It’s how serious he looks, how it drains the color from his face, the guile of his green eyes.

            “I was the best thing that ever happened to you. We were good together,” and then he adds while pulling away, as if it calms the sting of his previous claim, “I loved you, Zayn.”

            “You thought you did.”

            Harry scoffs, “I think I’d know,” then he stills, “I think I still do.”

            It might have worked, too. Might have had him crawling back into Harry’s arms like before. Except he’s not desperate anymore. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be.

            It just makes him angry.

            “Then why’d you hurt me? Why’d you make me think I was the one who fucked up?” he groans, exasperated, “Why’d you cheat on me? And with Louis, of all people!”

            Harry smiles like he’s golden, “Haven’t you ever heard of second chances?”

—

            Liam can tell something’s wrong the moment he walks through the door. He drops his keys on the kitchen counter like always. Grabs a water from the fridge like always. Hangs his coat over the arm of the sofa…like always.

            Except every step of the way, he’s met with thick canvases, each covered with brown paper, but there are dozens- leaning against the stove, on the sofa, by the television, nailed up on the wall. All covered so he can’t see what’s on them, but he takes a deep breath before opening his bedroom door.

            He knows something’s wrong because Zayn only paints like this- coating all of his canvases, covering them afterwards like he’s ashamed, not eating all day- he only gets like this when he’s at his worst.

            And Liam loves him, of course he loves him, so Liam will love him through it.

            He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself, before walking in.   

—

            The door opens slowly, and Zayn turns away. He doesn’t want to see him.

            He doesn’t want to see anyone, but mostly, he doesn’t want to see Liam. Because Liam can read him like no one else can, and he’s afraid he’ll just sense Harry on him or something. Like he’ll be able to  _feel_  him there and Zayn will be tainted and not good enough anymore.

            “Zayn?” he says, leaning over the bed, pressing his face to Zayn’s cheek, “Is everything okay?”

             _Yes._  “No.”

            “What’s the matter, babe?”

             _Nothing._  “Everything.”

            He pulls him into his lap, plays with his hair until Zayn finally gives in.                    

            “I went to see Harry today,” he says. He leaves it there between them. He doesn’t say that he needed to know. Needed to see if Harry was sincere. To see if Harry meant it when he said he still loved him… He’d gone to his flat, and the door swung open with his just his knuckles. He walked in to the thriving bass of White Sweater, ear-splittingly loud, and a high-pitched squeal- that couldn’t be anyone other than Louis- coming from the bedroom.  _Their_  old bedroom. The monotonous squeak then bang of the tattered old mattress, of the head board hitting the wall with each thrust.

            And Liam’s basically everything that’s good about Zayn’s life. He doesn’t let go, he pulls him closer.

            “What can I do?” he says, “What do you need?”

—

            He goes so slow at first, Zayn wants to scream. He can take it, okay? He doesn’t need to be eased into anything.

            But it hurts, too. It’s been so long. And Liam wants it to feel good for him, so he goes slow.

            He waits until there’s nothing but this background throb, a rough heat that’s more than he remembers. Liam leans down over Zayn’s chest and kisses him, finding a steady rhythm.

            “I love you,” he says, and Zayn kind of wants to punch him because he’s such a sap.

            “Shut up,” he quips, “It doesn’t really count when you’ve got your dick in my arse, okay?” but he’s smiling.

            Until he  _feels_  it. And yeah, it’s definitely better than he remembers. It coasts up his thighs, his stomach, and he holds onto Liam’s hips, tries to slow him down, because he knows he won’t last like this. But Liam grinds down into him, one hand on the side of Zayn’s face, the other on the head board.

            “Liam, I can’t- I don’t think I can-”

            “’S okay,” he says, breathless and low, voice shaking, “Me either. Want you- Ungh, want you to come for me.”

—

            They come down- crash down- together and it’s perfect and Zayn nuzzles into him where he always fits just right.

            He looks down at his hands, at the dark colors under his fingernails, at the brown and green, black paint like a reminder. But it doesn’t  _loom_  there. And he looks at the ring on his finger and even though he doesn’t need it anymore, even though it’s just a pretty piece of jewelry now, he knows he’ll probably never take it off.

            He kisses Liam’s neck, right on the birthmark there, and Liam laughs and his chest shakes and Zayn feels it under his skin.

            “ I love you,” he says and Liam squeezes his shoulder.

            “I love you, too.”

            And he doesn’t have to say because they both know what he means and it’s good and okay and it means everything.

             _I love you better_ , he says without the words, _I love you more._


End file.
